


Some Nameless Need

by cereal



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: No, David thinks nature will be good for all of them, help them reconnect with their roots (and here David laughed for a full two minutes at his own pun), and reconnect with each other.And because where David goes, so goes Mary Margaret (legally, even) there's a whole theme to their weekend in the woods: Storybrooke High, Class of 2001, back to high school.It's a carefully choreographed thing that saw Killian tearing apart his apartment for his letter jacket, Emma tearing apart her apartment for her jean jacket, and Ruby tearing apart the aisles of CVS in search of white eyeliner. (a high school friends go camping as adults AU!)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is for captain--kitten — it is not exactly what she asked for, it is, however, what I did: 8,500 words of the thinnest of AU premises, smut, and also there's rain. The title is from Del Amitri's 'Roll to Me' because, man, what a '90s banger. You can also [check this out on Tumblr here]().

It's not that she hates nature, she _loves_ nature, but more importantly, she _respects_ nature, enough, at least, to give nature its own space.

Meaning: nature stays with nature, out in the woods, and Emma stays with Netflix, on the TV in front of her couch.

Sometimes there's a dandelion coming up through the cracks of the pavement, and sometimes Emma smiles at it, and nods in acknowledgement, and that's enough.

Sometimes though, in between juggling her bag and her cup and her phone, she steps on it, and, as such, nature probably has a bone to pick.

Which is why venturing into the woods, into nature's full on and indisputable territory, seems like asking for trouble.

Not that David — fucking _David_ , with his flannels and his boots and his growing up on a farm _thing_ (until he was 8, honestly, it shouldn't even count) — cares one single bit for any grudges nature may or may not be holding against Emma.

No, _David_ thinks _nature_ will be good for all of them, help them reconnect with their roots (and here David laughed for a full two minutes at his own pun), and reconnect with each other.

And because where David goes, so goes Mary Margaret (legally, even) there's a whole theme to their weekend in the woods: Storybrooke High, Class of 2001, back to high school.

It's a carefully choreographed thing that saw Killian tearing apart his apartment for his letter jacket, Emma tearing apart her apartment for her jean jacket, and Ruby tearing apart the aisles of CVS in search of white eyeliner.

Emma doesn't know how the other two faired, but she did, in fact, find her jacket, the pins and patches still clinging to the worn denim, and when she'd slipped it on before driving to the meet point (Granny's, naturally), she could've sworn she got a whiff of CK one and Parliament Lights.

It's enough nostalgia to last the whole weekend as far as she's concerned, which is why it's no surprise that it absolutely does _not_ stop there.

The courtyard of Granny's is full of her friends, all of them in various throwbacks to more than fifteen years ago, aided by the sounds of Third Eye Blind playing over the small speakers mounted to the building.

David is singing along, arm slung around Robin's shoulder while Robin pretends not to know the rest of the words, only joining in on the "do-do- _do_ - **do** -do-do-dooo" parts.

Robin's the only one not decked out in the red and black of Storybrooke High, instead he wears a worn green t-shirt with "Sherwood Archery" written on the front — apparently where he'd gone before Regina had picked him up and added him to the group in college.

Emma watches as Mary Margaret squints at the shirt, nodding to herself when it passes muster, and then casting her eye to the rest of the crew for a similar inspection.

Ruby clearly hadn't located the white eyeliner, but is appropriately garbed anyway, in a Roxy halter top and a cluster of mini butterfly clips in her hair, with Victor standing next to her in board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.

David has found his letter jacket, although "found" would imply he ever lost it, and Emma knows it's been hanging in their coat closet for years now. She'd bet her entire month's salary that it makes its way to Mary Margaret's shoulders sometime soon, just as it had in high school.

Regina, even, has made some concession to the rules of the weekend, a faded Lilith Fair t-shirt visible under the austere black blazer she's apparently still clinging to, as some vestige of who she is over who she was.

All told, it's a group of people representing a good chunk of the signatures emblazoned in the large, block-lettered '01 on the back of Mary Margaret's own t-shirt — or it will be once Killian shows up.

Before she even has time to send him a text, a black SUV slips onto the street, windows open and "Blister in the Sun" thumping through the speakers, filling the courtyard louder than the Eagle Eye Cherry that had replaced Third Eye Blind.

"That's the spirit, Jones!" David shouts as Killian pulls up in front of the restaurant, turning the car off and hopping out.

He's apparently found his own varsity jacket, the little gold soccer ball pinned to the S over his heart glinting in the sun. She can see as he moves toward them how it's tighter now than it used to be, the shoulders pulling in a way that shows how he's gone from wiry high school soccer player to...well, considerably _less_ wiry weekend rec league soccer player.

It's not a bad look, just as it wasn't in high school, and she absolutely does _not_ let herself think about the weight of that jacket around her shoulders as Killian's hand slipped down the front of her jeans at that final high school party at Victor's house.

(Not that she _never_ lets herself think about that, because she does. She thinks about that a lot, alone, in her bed, when she needs a release and somehow the only thing that can get there is not any number of the adult encounters she's had since, but instead getting fingered by one of her best friends, all frantic and hot, the smell of cologne and sweat in the air, at a party when she was 18.)

(Just because she thinks about it doesn't mean she examines the reasons why, though.)

(She knows why.)

Instead, she takes in the rest of him, the battered Sambas on his feet, the jeans much tighter and much skinnier than any of them would've worn in high school, and she swears to herself right there that if Mary Margaret tries to make him change them, it's a hill Emma's prepared to die on.

Killian greets each of them in turn, commenting on everybody's outfits in between hugs and bro-hugs. When he gets to her, he gives a little tug to the collar of her jean jacket.

"I see you found this, Swan," he says, and the look he gives her is so clear, so fucking crystal clear — it's a look that remembers that same night and that the reason she'd been wearing his letter jacket was because her own had gone missing.

When he pulls his hand back, it's to rub at the spot on his neck where she'd sunk her teeth in, branding him with a hickey he wore even as they walked the stage for graduation.

There'd been no marks on his body from her before then, or since, and the thought of how they're both single now, of how much thicker his fingers are now, of the things she's seen him do with his mouth to toothpicks is enough to have her doing an immediate and hasty count of the number of people in attendance.

Eight. There's eight.

She casts back to a couple of weeks ago, Venmo-ing David the fifty bucks for tent and supply rental, as well as food, and she's nearly certain that he'd mentioned it was for _four_ tents.

Four _two-person_ tents.

Which means, in this courtyard full of couples, that she's bunking with Killian.

There's no time to bring it up though, because almost immediately after, Mary Margaret and David are climbing into David's truck, the one with all the supplies in the bed.

Regina and Robin, in a move surprising to no one, slip into Regina's tiny Mercedes, leaving Emma to ride shotgun next to Killian in his SUV as Victor and Ruby pile into the back seat.

"All set?" Killian asks as she slides into the passenger seat after depositing her duffel bag in the trunk.

"Yeah," she tells him, Victor and Ruby echoing the sentiment from the back.

"Off we go then," he says, starting the car and maneuvering to follow their small caravan out of town.

If she watches his fingers on the steering wheel more than could be considered normal, well, that's her business.

&&.

There's a moment when they're constructing their tent when she thinks he's going to bring it up.

It being...everything.

The fact that they never got their timing right.

Neal.

Milah.

It being the fact that she's been secretly in love with him since she was a fucking kid, and that maybe — and it's a big maybe — he might sometimes look like he feels the same.

It being that _she's_ absolutely not going to be the one to bring it up and if she has to live out her life single, it'll be fine so long as he's single, too.

It being that the Tink thing had ended months ago, and the Walsh thing had ended years ago, and it being that this won't even be the first time this _month_ that they've shared a sleeping space, because he crashes at her place more often than not anymore.

They'd only been apart these past few days because he'd been out of town on a work trip — one they'd FaceTimed every single night of.

She knows what it feels like to have his morning erection pushing into her ass, and she knows what it feels like to press her hips back against it.

What's more is that she knows what it's like to ignore it, which is what _he_ does now — the hint of something on the tip of his tongue and pulled back at the last second.

And this is how it goes for them, two fucking cowards, doing the chicken dance, just like at senior prom.

&&.

How did she not expect _games_? Of course there are _games_.

It starts off slow, with a game of charades that makes clear that Ruby and Victor have some sort of secret, silent, sex language and are not to be trusted, or competed against.

It moves to Spin the Bottle, and the knot in Emma's stomach chars and melts just like the marshmallows they're torturing over the campfire.

This, too, ends as quickly as it's begun, when Killian — with an inscrutable look at Emma — forces the bottle to point at David on his turn, and the boys devolve into an all-out wrestling war, reminiscent of the Lucas basement circa 1998.

Which, like...Emma's simultaneously grateful for the interruption and _extremely_ frustrated by it.

It's just become so, _so_ clear that neither of them are going to do a fucking thing without some sort of massive third party intervention.

Her, because if-when-if something happens and it goes to shit, she absolutely will not be able to cope with the loss of Killian in her life, and no amount of prodding from Mary Margaret (something even she gave up on years ago) is able to overcome Emma's a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush logic.

And him — him, because he follows her lead, always.

Even then, even in two-thousand-fucking-one, it had been her to grab him by the shirt, her to pull him into Victor's stupid game room, her to grind against his thigh until he took the hint.

Her to back off and run — and _run_ — all the way to Neal and Florida.

When she'd come back, broken but determined, Killian had introduced her to Milah, and that had been that for a while.

One more in her tidy little list of reasons why not.

But the thing is — she's _tired_.

She's tired of fighting, tired of pretending she doesn't steal his plaid shirts to wear and his t-shirts to sleep with, tired of pretending she doesn't grocery shop with him in mind and get dressed with him in mind (not all the time, but sometimes...enough times), and just — fuck, fuck, fuck.

The sun is only now setting, and the next game on Mary Margaret's list — likely built in a spreadsheet in her overused copy of Excel (god, there's probably a _pivot table_ ) — is hide and seek, but they're told it's going to have to wait until it gets fully dark.

Instead, Mary Margaret casts a deliberate glance at Killian, who scrambles back over the log he'd been sitting on with Victor to get his guitar case.

Now, rationally, she _knew_ he had his guitar, she was mindful of the case when she'd put her bag in the trunk of his car.

On the other hand, the _irrational_ hand, she'd maybe assumed that it would stay there, forever, and she'd never again have to revisit the swoon-worthy greatest hits of her adolescence.

Even that summer he'd gotten really into Sublime hadn't cooled her ardor, teenage Killian warbling out the lyrics to 'Caress Me Down' with the smuggest of twinkles in his eye.

(To say nothing of that time he'd really taken the whole thing to heart, buying a dime bag off Will Scarlet and roping Emma into smoking it with him — the floaty warm feeling in her stomach as Killian laughed at her side to after-school reruns of Animaniacs and Tiny Toon Adventures.)

No, Killian with a guitar was always just going to be a Thing for her, and she was just going to have live with that, even tonight, _especially_ tonight, as Mary Margaret hands him a piece of paper which Emma assumes can only be the approved setlist for the night.

"Jesus, Mary Margaret, I barely remember half of these," he says, eyes squinting at the song titles.

"I don't believe that for a single second." Mary Margaret's giving him the teacher eye, which should be out of place in a weekend where they're remembering their days as students, but Emma does _not_ have a death wish.

"I'm serious — Lit? _Tonic_? Better than fucking Ezra?" There's a laughing incredulity in his tone, but the way he's looking at Emma is where the real story is.

"Hey," David says. "Don't swear at my wife. Come on, man, you played 'Glycerine' at that bar, like, three weeks ago."

"Fine."

Killian fiddles with the knobs on the end of his guitar, positioning and repositioning the little clamp thing until he launches into the first song.

" _You say I only hear what I want to —_ "

Emma immediately recognizes the song, but it's Ruby who squeals, jumping up from her seat to grab Mary Margaret into a slow sway as Killian gives Lisa Loeb a sexy, accented run for her money.

He stays focused on his fingers on the strings for the whole thing, which is for the best — Emma doesn't need any meaningful looks to, like, any part of that song.

She only gets this reprieve for a handful of songs though, because as soon as David grabs the tracklist, points at something so only Killian can see, and then looks pointedly at Emma, she can tell what's coming.

And so, apparently, can Killian. "She's gonna kill you, mate."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," David says. "Look, I'll sing with you."

"It's your funeral," Killian says, shaking his head. "All right, ready —

 _This is...the story of a girl who cried a river and drowned the whole world..._ "

By the end, _everyone_ is singing, even Robin, the fucking traitor, all of them — god, even _Regina_ — singing right to her face the same way David and Killian used to follow her around the house singing, trying to make her laugh, trying to make her smile.

It's a lot, and it's _insane_ , but something settles warmly at the base of her spine, a release of tension — this isn't about Killian, this isn't about their awful timing, this is about her, and her friends.

And really shitty '90s songs.

It'll be all right.

The Killian thing will wait.

&&.

It waits an _hour_.

Night has fallen, the darkness settling around them in that all-consuming way that can only happen outside of the city, and their little campfire burns brightly, alone at the center of it, until Mary Margaret hands out the flashlights and the ensuing beams of light criss-cross the campsite.

"School rules," David says. "Oldest is 'it' first, and the last to be found is 'it' next."

Robin shrugs good-naturedly. "That'd be me — what's the count, then? 75 ought to do it?"

David nods, checking to make sure everyone's flashlight is working. He's got an advantage, one of the actual police flashlights gripped in his hand, but since she has the same advantage, Emma doesn't press it. "That'll work — ready, set...go!"

They all take off in opposite directions, Emma headed for the tree she used to climb when they camped at this same spot with David and Ruth.

It hadn't been fun those first few times, too unsure of her footing with the Nolans, the omnipresent feeling that she'd be shipped back at any minute holding tight around her throat.

Slowly, sixth grade became seventh and seventh became eighth and suddenly she was in high school, her forever family, her _brother_ by her side, and the tree just became...hers. Her go-to hiding spot, her thinking place, her reading place — anybody else would've known to look there, but Robin wasn't around then, and she grabs at the excuse to visit the old tree.

It takes a minute to find it, her steps turning into a light jog the more distant Robin's voice becomes.

When she finds the tree, she scampers up it with an impressive (to her, at least — still got it after all these years) amount of ease, shimmying across the branches until she reaches the place she used to sit, her back to the trunk and her legs stretched out in front of her as she clicks her flashlight off.

Then, she waits.

Mary Margaret had confiscated their cell phones as soon as they'd arrived, even though there's a perfectly useful cell tower just at the edge of highway that would've guaranteed a signal. Emma's confident that if she'd fussed about it, Mary Margaret would've handed her one of those old candy bar Nokia phones and told her to enjoy her game of Snake.

Since she hadn't complained, she's left in silence — a silence quiet enough to hear the vague and distant rumble of a storm that absolutely had _not_ been in the forecast.

As the minutes pass without a sound from any of her friends, and no sight of Robin, the storm seems to move closer, the air thickening as the hairs on Emma's arm stand up beneath her jacket.

It's when she's moving to hop down from the tree and head back to camp, hide and seek be damned, that the storm catches up.

The clouds above her send down a handful of drops, like a test, like one of those things that they'd send in before a battle to check things (Killian would know), and Emma thinks for one brief moment, she's going to catch a break.

Then, in a crack of thunder, nature remembers every single dandelion she's ever stepped on, and just fucking loses its mind.

The rain seems to be coming from all directions, straight down from the sky, sideways through the branches of the trees, up from the ground, it's like she's stuck in some wet tornado, her jacket quickly growing stiff and damp as her hair presses itself to her head.

With a few calming breaths, she reasons that the speed with which the storm arrived indicates the speed with which it will leave, and she curls herself into a ball, slipping her jacket off to form a canopy over her head.

It goes on like this for several long minutes, the drumming of the rain against the fabric over her head, the sound of the leaves moving in the wind, the white noise of the storm so all-encompassing that she almost misses her name the first time it's said.

"What?" she calls back, trying to peer down over the branch she's sitting on while still keeping herself covered — which is fruitless, she's drenched.

A flashlight beam hits the branch above her and then shines right in her face before shifting to the trunk near her back, and, oh, right, she has a light, too.

Pulling it out from where she'd tucked it hopefully safe and dry underneath her bent knees, she switches the beam on, peering down as it alights on Killian's face.

"Swan, it's a mess out here, game's over."

"You don't say," she says.

She can see the way Killian shakes his head and laughs, the little droplets flinging off the ends of his hair.

"All right, smart arse, you gonna climb down or do I have to come and get you?"

"I'll climb down — hey, you don't have an umbrella down there do you?"

Killian gestures down the length of his body, the varsity jacket muddy on the red sleeves. "Does it look like I have an umbrella?"

"Fine, fine, just wishful thinking," she says, shimmying her way down the tree. "Here, move, I'm gonna jump the rest of the way."

"I don't think that's such a good —"

Emma lands in a squelch of mud that easily crosses the distance to cover Killian's jeans from the knees down.

"— idea."

"Ohhhh, okay, wow, I'm sorry."

"If you wanted to get dirty with me, Swan, you just had to say the word."

She rolls her eyes, taking off in a run as she shouts to the wind, the rain beating against her face, the smile forming there as she hears Killian's wet footprints behind her, "Olly olly oxen free!"

&&.

The campsite is very nearly a warzone.

Killian had luckily put his guitar back in his car when he'd finished, but everything else is pretty much a lost cause, the fire is out, the marshmallows are soaked, and the logs they'd been sitting on shine with moisture under the beams of their flashlights.

The rain has slowed but not stopped and Emma barely has time to track it as a red and black blur streaks by her to dive into the nearest tent, drawing Emma's attention to the fact that despite the literal force of nature, the tents remain standing.

"It's dry," Ruby's voice calls out.

And then lower, Victor's voice, also from inside the tent — "But you are _very_ wet."

The sultry giggle Ruby lets out in response is drowned out by David's voice as his head ducks out of the tent to their left.

"Call it, Emma, wait it out, or drive back?"

She looks around the campsite, noticing slight movement in each tent except the farthest one — the one she's supposed to share with Killian.

When she glances at him, he scratches below his ear.

"Robin had found everybody else before the storm started, I, uh, I was pretty sure I knew where you were, so I...volunteered to get you."

She looks to David, his floating head still sticking out from the flaps of the tent, and he raises his eyebrows, clearly implying Killian had done more telling than volunteering.

"Right — uh, thank you."

He dips his head in a little bow and then cuts his eyes meaningfully to David and back to Emma.

"What'll it be, Swan? Sadie Hawkins 1999 or a long drive back to town?"

She smiles at the reference, the RV they'd all chipped into rent for after the dance and the way the rain had kept them all confined inside it, like some sort of twisted Real World experiment.

"For what it's worth, Emma, the sleeping bags are completely dry," Mary Margaret says, her voice thinned by the nylon or whatever is keeping her safe inside the elements.

No one else seems inclined to leave, Regina and Robin talking quietly amongst themselves as a beam of light chases itself across the side of their tent.

"I guess we can stay," she says, mindful of the fact that she and Killian are literally standing in the rain to have this conversation.

"As you wish," Killian says, a little half-smile fluttering across his lips before he crosses to their tent.

It's set a bit farther back than the others, the formation of the trees necessitating that one sit outside the circle. Killian unzips the flaps before making an awkward backward waddle to get his butt into the tent, leaving his sneakers outside and toeing them off before tucking his legs up inside the shelter it provides.

With no better ideas forthcoming, Emma follows the same movement, falling backward into the tent, half on her sleeping bag and half on Killian's leg.

"There now, love, all dry," he says.

"For _now_ , my clothes are soaking through the sleeping bags, Jesus," she says, dancing her body up and away, trying to preserve the dry state of the floor in their small space. "So are yours, and yours are _muddy_ , god, come on, off, off, off."

Killian looks wide-eyed and confused for a moment, but when she starts stripping, tossing her clothes out the front of the tent, he hurries to catch up.

She's down to her underwear — blessedly pretty dry — and kneeling before Killian, who finished zipping the tent back up, before she realizes what, exactly, she's done.

"Uh," she says, eyes skipping over Killian's black boxer briefs, the moonlight pouring in through whatever waterproof mesh is lining a portion of the tent making everything reasonably easy to see.

There's a thin line of Calvin Klein-branded elastic running around his waist, and she knows it matches the thin line of Calvin Klein-branded elastic running below her breasts, the one attached to her bra...lette... _thing_.

She knows this because they literally shopped for _underwear_ together, they made their fucking purchases _together_ to qualify for more of a discount.

Killian's own gaze seems to be mirroring hers, skipping along what is literally matching underwear, but not settling too long in any one place.

He clears his throat, nudging the strap over her shoulder. "Looks better on."

"What?" she says, her voice _extremely_ loud in the small space, even over the sound of the rain hitting the tent.

"The, uh, the bra thing. You wouldn't let me in the fitting room, remember? Looks better on."

She feels heat flood her cheeks, but refuses to acknowledge it, instead returning the sentiment. "Yeah...you, too."

"I didn't try mine on, but rest assured you'd have been welcome to see if I had." He tries for flirty, she can tell in the way his eyebrows move, but it just comes out sounding...well, sincere.

"Right. Not, uh, not very theme-accurate though, huh? What were you wearing in high school? Those hideous printed boxers? And then you'd be able to see them because you wore your jeans so low." She laughs to herself at the memory, the little palm trees dancing across his boxers and the way she'd stare at them in chemistry class.

He sits up straighter, the awkward half-kneel he's in settling into sitting truly cross-legged, like they're going to play that hand-slapping game.

"Yeah, well, you're not accurate either," he says. "That —" and here he nods at her lower half, the dark purple underwear starkly apparent against her pale skin, "— is altogether more lacy than your high school _things_."

She mirrors his cross-legged posture, dragging the corner of her sleeping bag over her lap to cover any gaps in the crotch area of her underwear.

"Oh, yeah? What would you know about the underwear I wore in high school?"

"Come now, Swan, I may not have _seen_ it, but that amount of lace would surely have been perceptible to my fingers."

Something heavy and hot, but not entirely unpleasant, blankets every inch of Emma's skin, it's an awareness, an anticipation.

It's the same feeling she gets when they wake up together in the mornings, everything soft and muted, it's like a cloud of potential hovering in the air around them, but if she reaches out to touch it, it might evaporate.

And so it's here that she would normally backtrack, here that _he_ would, too, but that feeling of being tired of running, of not trying, buzzes like a current in her blood; it makes her want to try.

"You remember that then?"

He laughs, a short, soft then that she's sure he intended to be much more flippant. "My sexual awakening? Yeah, Swan, I remember."

"It wasn't though...was it? I mean, I just mean, like, you kind of — you knew what you were doing."

He scratches under his ear again. "Yeah, I knew what I was doing. There were maybe some — listen, I knew what I was doing, but it's...it's you. C'mon, Emma, you know it was you."

She's not sure how to respond to that, not sure what the change in tenses means, but she presses on, marveling that they're having this conversation fifteen years later, in a tent, in the rain.

"If I remember correctly," she says, "you didn't exactly let me return the favor."

His response is immediate. "Did you want to?"

"Why? Does 18-year-old Killian have some regrets?"

He shakes his head, eyes tracking the set of zippers that seal them in at the front of the tent. "No, but 33-year-old Killian might."

Before she can respond, he picks back up, voice more sure. "Listen, Swan, let's just — let's talk about something else. Did you know Regina hid in the —"

"Killian," she says, her hand finding his knee, hyper-aware of the crinkle of his leg hair.

"Really, _Emma_ , we don't have to do this."

"And if I want to do this? If I want to...return the favor?"

He huffs out a breath, a defensive noise that immediately sets her on edge. "You think we're talking about blow jobs?"

She doesn't respond immediately, letting her ears categorize the sounds around them, the rain's slow patter on the tent, the wind through the trees, the absence of her friends' voices — she knows they haven't gone to sleep, which means if she can't hear them, they can't hear her.

So...she speaks. "You know the other day you talked to me for forty-five full minutes about the Terminator franchise?"

"What?"

"Dude, come on, you definitely heard me. Just like I heard you when you talked about the Terminator franchise for forty-five full minutes."

"Okay...?"

"And you know the guy that fills the vending machine at my work?"

"Clarence, yeah, go on," Killian says, still clearly unsure where she's going but willing to play along.

"Yeah, Clarence, exactly. Like — Killian, you know the name of the guy at work who refuses to stock brown sugar Pop-Tarts and strawberry Pop-Tarts on different rungs."

"Well, yeah, because sometimes you want one flavor and not the other and you shouldn't have to buy two packs just to get to the ones you want."

"Right, and you know that because I talk about it, like, a lot, probably."

"You're very passionate about your breakfast pastries, Swan."

"I am, and so I talk, and you listen, and you talk — about the damn Terminator — and I listen. But, god, Jones, seriously, what are we actually saying? Do we ever say _anything_?"

Killian's eyes meet hers, blue and clear and...hopeful?

"Okay," he breathes out, "so...what _should_ we be saying?"

She takes a deep breath, making sure to keep her gaze on his, to look him straight in the eye because she knows it's going to have to come from her, she's gonna have to start.

"I think we should be saying —"

"Yeah?" and god, he just looks so earnest, and she wants to, everything in her wants to, but it's so much, it's so fucking much and —

"I think — you know how in high school things meant other things?"

His eyebrows draw down, brow furrowing at yet another tangent. "Um, sure."

"What I'm saying is — Killian...I _like_ -like you."

It's a ridiculous sentence, as soon as she hears it, she knows what she's said is fundamentally ridiculous.

To his credit, Killian only reacts to the ridiculous part for less than a second, a fraction of a breath, his shoulders drooping nearly imperceptibly, and she doesn't even realize she's dropped her gaze until he ducks down to meet it.

"Swan, I _like_ -like you, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And things mean other things?"

"Things mean other things." He nods, like that settles it.

She's not sure what to say to that, so she moves instead, rising up onto her knees and resting her hands on Killian's shoulders, her fingers playing with the slightly damp hair over the back of his neck.

The rain outside is still steadily falling, it feels like it's almost in time to the slow trickle of moments and air between them, the measured breaths she's forcing herself to take as she leans into his space, brushing her nose against his before repeating the motion with her lips against his, light and quick.

"And what do you think that means?"

He tips his forehead to hers, screwing his eyes shut tight for a moment before opening them to focus somewhere around her mouth.

"I think it means — bloody hell, Swan, if you _don't_ mean it, stop now."

She nods against him, the slight movement jostling his head along with hers, affirming things for both of them. "I mean it."

There's another long moment, the patter of rain on the tent, the time he's clearly giving her to back out, and then his hands are cupping her face and his mouth is pressed to hers, firmer than she'd done it and with a definite intent.

She meets the pressure against him, tilting her head to get a better angle, and repositioning their lips until she's well and truly kissing him,  _really_ kissing him, for the first time since high school.

One she's started though, her body remembers, moving to escalate things almost immediately, her tongue slipping out to brush against his bottom lip before she can even process the thought to do it.

He must feel similarly because his mouth opens immediately, a slow slide of wet heat as his tongue brushes against hers, as they kiss languid and deep, the way they never would've managed at 18.

His right hand moves to tangle in the wet locks of her hair, while his left slips to rest against the skin of her waist. She can feel the pucker of scarred skin there, can remember what it was like when that accident happened, when he almost lost Liam, and he almost lost his hand, when campfire singalong in their thirties would've seemed like some morphine-induced dream to him, and like a cruel taunt to her.

They'd have made it then though, they _did_ make it then, just as they've — _finally_ — made it now and her own hands can't figure out where to settle, brushing his shoulders, his chest, his infuriatingly hot hipbones as he rises up to meet her on his knees.

There's a loud groan from one of the other tents, Victor, if she had to guess, and Killian pulls back only to smile against her lips, whispering his words against her mouth.

"We'll need to be quiet, love — can you do that?"

It's all raspy and low and it makes her want to literally scream, in a good way, but instead she nods, whispering back to him, "I can do that."

"Good," he says, with finality, and then his mouth is on her neck, testing the limits of the vow she's only just made.

Whatever she remembers of their youthful...dalliance, it was nowhere near as precise as this, nowhere near the way Killian presses a line of firm, sucking kisses up the skin of her throat until he's found the spot he couldn't possibly remember, but clearly does.

She can barely keep back the moan pushing to escape, instead pressing her own mouth to his shoulder, her teeth working lightly at the skin there as he shuffles closer still, his arm sweeping behind her back until she's lying down, pressed to the slippery material of her sleeping bag as Killian hovers over her.

He's braced himself on his left arm, his free hand gripping the width of her thigh until it's hitched up over his hip and he's got a wild look in his eye, like he can't decide what to do next.

Her hands slip into his hair, gripping enough to steer him back to kissing her with just the slightest pressure, a skillful slide of lips and tongue and teeth that's enough until it's not.

His erection settles against her core — an alignment so fucking _perfect_ that it brings them both to a momentary pause, panting against each other.

Without undoing the good work — the _amazing_ work — they've done with their lower halves, Killian props himself up further, until his hand can settle over her breast, palming the weight and squeezing lightly.

"These are just as good," he mumbles against her mouth before gripping tighter. "Better, even."

"Yeah?"

He nods, kissing his way down her throat and the edge of her bra, his mouth settling hot and wet over the thin cotton he'd helped her pick out.

"Oh, yeah," he says, and his teeth finds the small ridge of her nipple through the fabric before switching sides to bring the other nipple to a similar state. "Didn't get to see them before though."

"Well, let's give young-you something to be jealous of then." She shimmies up underneath him, enough to grip the elastic of her bra and tug it up and off over her head.

Killian licks his lips, a visible swallow working its way down his throat. "Bloody hell, Swan, he's already come in his pants somewhere."

"That could be hot," she says, scratching her nails up the length of his back in a way that makes him literally shudder.

"This will be hotter," he growls and then his mouth is on one breast and his hand is on the other, and Emma's eyes slam shut trying to process it all.

"Oh my god, fuck, Killian, oh my god."

His hips start up a grind against hers, the motion drawing attention to how wet she is, the lace of her underwear damp and rough as he presses into her.

She slips her hands down to his ass, his perfect, stupid, sexy ass, fingers gripping the muscle there through the cotton of his boxer briefs. She tries to force him into a rhythm, but it's a fruitless effort, the groan he lets out in response hijacking all thoughts except the one telling her to make him sound like that again.

"Roll over," she says, "and _be quiet_."

"Swan, no, I'm hardly properly acquainted with these two lovely ladies," he says, kissing each one of her breasts in turn. "What should we call them? Something appropriately '90s — Itchy and Scratchy? Pinky and the Brain? Mulder and Scully?"

His hand slips over her breast once more, massaging, but also..testing? He has a considering look on his face as he switches sides, and then a smile, the one she knows precedes something goofy, twists his lips up. "What about Phil and Lil? This one does seem just the slightest bit smaller."

"You're gonna name my boobs after the _Rugrats_?"

He nods, all ardent boyish charm and doofy grin.

"I'm gonna kill you," she says. "But it's gonna be the fun way."

And with that, she uses her weight to roll him over, pinning him to his sleeping bag as she straddles his waist. Then she's moving down his body, stopping along the way to put her lips — and her _teeth_ — wherever she feels like it, with a nice, healthy linger at his hipbones.

When she reaches his boxer briefs, she kisses along the waistband, making sure that the warmth of her breath grazes his cock, before she moves down to put her mouth over the tip, the fabric damp with a small wet spot.

"I get to name this then," she tells him, eyes meeting his over the expanse of his abdomen and chest. "So, go on, let me see it."

He shifts awkwardly, making sure the elastic clears the jut of his erection as she rises up higher above to give him room to shuffle the garment the rest of the way down.

When he's finished, she settles back down, slipping her body to the side and bringing her face level with — holy fuck, with Killian's  _cock_.

Jesus.

She gives herself a moment to take it in, the solid length of it, the precum leaking from the tip, and then she refocuses on their conversation, trying to keep up whatever it is they've been doing that makes this feel like any other conversation, but naked, and with sex stuff.

"Should I stay on theme?" she asks, working his erection with slow strokes like she's considering all angles. "What was that dinosaur? Reptar?"

She gives it one slow lick, from root to tip, and relishes the way Killian's eyes all but roll back in his head. "Nah, this isn't Reptar, is it? What about the Bayside Tiger?"

Her hand slips to his balls, lightly massaging them in the same considering fashion.

"No, no, that's not it either. I can do better."

She lets her tongue circle the head of his cock a few times and the noise Killian makes is somewhere between a whine, a groan, and much too loud.

"Shhh," she reminds him. "Quiet. Look, it seems like it's curving, huh? Just a little bit? Remember when you did that play sophomore year — you played Captain Hook, didn't you?"

Above her, Killian's face is flushed, his lips parted as he stutters out some sort of affirmative noise.

"Perfect, Captain Hook it is then. Does that work for you?"

She can hear the scratch of his hair against the nylon of his sleeping bag as he nods with almost manic enthusiasm, the kind that makes it clear she could've called his cock Regis fucking Philbin and he'd have agreed.

"All right, well, now that we're _properly acquainted_ ," she says, holding him steady with her hand as she fits her lips over his length.

She works him steadily with her mouth, long, slow strokes that take her lips down to the base of him and then back up again, as she experiments with suction and her tongue and light drags of her teeth.

His hand slips cautiously into her hair, making it clear that he's testing to see if she'll stop him, and in response she slips her hand over top of his, tightening until he gets the hint and knots his fingers in the strands.

She nods, subtly, encouraging him, and he slowly starts to guide her into a pace, slow but getting faster, and she’s pressing her hips to the ground for friction in a matter of moments, desperate for more each time a groan or grunt slips past his lips.

When she's found a rhythm, he relaxes minutely, settling into enjoying it, and babbling to her in an extremely encouraging way.

"I was wrong, bloody fuck, I was wrong earlier, with interest, the favor — I deserve at least ten of these, oh fuck, Emma, god, don't stop."

"Yeah?" she says, pulling her mouth back to give him several slow, firm strokes with her hand. "You think you can handle _ten_ of these?" She slips her tongue out to trace up the slit at the tip of his cock. "Doesn't seem like you're handling this one very well."

There's a spark of something in his eye, his eyebrows dipping down into something altogether devilish.

Then he's licking his lips. "That's quite enough, Swan."

Before she can respond, he's hauled her back up, rolling her over and pinning her once more to her sleeping bag before moving down her body, taking her underwear with him.

"I'm gonna make up for lost time," he tells her, his hands sliding up her thighs and parting them before settling in the space between her spread legs.

"I remember _this_ ," he tells her, swiping two fingers leisurely through her folds before using them to spread her open. "But my mouth doesn't."

With that, he gives her a slow, thorough lick, stopping at her clit for only a moment before repeating the movement, just as slowly, just as thoroughly.

It quickly becomes too hard to track the specific motions, giving herself over to the warm-wet feel of Killian's tongue slipping inside of her and around her clit, and — and — fuck, god, _everywhere_ , shit, shit, shit.

She can tell he's smiling, and she can tell it's smug, but there's nothing left in her to call him on it, not when his mouth is wet because of her, not when he slips a finger down and inside of her until she's grinding and panting and pleading.

"God, good, yeah, like that, fuck, like that."

He follows her cues, or his instinct, or _something_ , because it's working — _Christ_ , it’s working — and she's so close, and it's Killian, it's Killian's fingers and Killian's mouth, and she's so fucking _close_.

His mouth moves over her clit, his tongue doing some complicated, wonderful thing, everything ratcheting up and up and up, until finally she comes, her back arching up off the sleeping bag as her fingers tighten and claw at his hair.

He keeps going, working his mouth, until she's squirming away from him because it's too much, and she winces to see the mess she's made of his hair and the thought that it might have actually hurt, what she'd done to get it in that state.

"Fuck, sorry — did that hurt? Are you okay?"

He wipes his mouth along her inner thigh, giving her a little bite there to top it off. "I'm good, love," he says, and then shifts up over her, kissing her deep and intense. "I'm really good."

She smiles against his mouth, scooting until he's once more cradled between her thighs, his erection resting firm and thick against her center — her fucking _super_ wet center — Jesus, he's good at that.

It's probably the orgasm, and it's probably him, but she suddenly feels a deep swell of affection, of _love_ , and she just — she's gonna tell him.

He's been slowly rutting against her, a movement she'd been reflexively matching, but when she moves to cup his face in her hands, he stops.

"Emma?" he says, one eyebrow raised, and for whatever god of nature she'd angered that it rained today, she's grateful that there's still the moonlight to see him by.

"I —" She rubs her thumbs across his cheeks, the scratch of stubble and the line of his scar. "I more than like-like you. I like, love-love you. I _love_ you, Killian."

For all the expressions she's ever seen on his face, and some brand new in the last several minutes, the one he wears now is her favorite — a quiet, soft smile, full of affection and pride. "I love you, too," he says, kissing her sweetly.

"Sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she mumbles against his lips.

"It's okay, we got there. And we got here," he says, flexing his hips. "Though why you had to wait until we were outside, in the rain, thirty feet away from all our closest friends, I'll never know."

"Shut up, Jones."

"As you wish, Swan."

He reaches down to position himself at her entrance, and she gives a brief thought to birth control before she realizes Killian is the one to remind her to take her pill more often than not, and then she's nodding at him, mouth falling open as he pushes inside of her.

Her hands move to his hips, stilling him for a moment, and the way he's got his face pressed to her neck, the deep, steadying breaths he's taking, make her think he could use a second, too.

When she's ready, she moves her legs, tightening them around his waist and urging him into a rhythm from below, a slow thing that he picks up on immediately.

If their friends haven't heard them by now, they're probably in the clear, but Emma isn't taking any chances, taking care to keep her mouth pressed to his shoulder, muffling anything that might escape as he gains momentum.

His own mouth is hovering somewhere near her ear, a rasping litany of praise and dirty talk that she feels in her bones, "You're so fucking wet for me, god, you feel so good, so hot and tight, and fuck — _fuck_."

There are questions in there, too, mindless things she's sure he doesn't register and she barely does:

 _Is this what you wanted?_ and _Have you thought about this?_ and _Are you gonna come around my cock?_

All of them answered with low, pleading affirmatives, because it is, and she has, and she is, god, she _is_.

There's a brief second where she's so close, she's _right there_ , and she just — needs — more, and Killian cants his hips, the friction on her clit the exact right thing, and then she's coming, she's got her fingernails against his back, her mouth against his shoulder, and she's **_coming_** , fuck, god.

It's enough to set him off, a few more wild thrusts and then he's pulling her close, burying himself as deep as he can get as he comes inside of her in pulses she swears she can feel in her bones.

She wraps her arms tight around him, keeping him there as their breathing returns to normal.

After a few long moments, filled with the same kind of beaming affection that had made her confess her feelings just a little bit ago, he rolls off of her, both of them staring at the stars beyond the canopy of the trees through the mesh of the tent.

"It stopped raining," he says.

"Yeah." And then, because it's him, and it's her — "Do you think I have to pee in the woods?"

Killian laughs, and she knows they're going to be _fine_.

&&.

Morning comes in a confusing jumble of light and sound.

There's the deep cadence of Killian's breathing behind her and then...literally no other familiar things.

There's sunlight and the voices of her friends and a tinny cellphone speaker version of..."Closing Time."

"Hey," Ruby's voice breaks away from the sound of Semisonic. "Rise and shine, you two! We're calling it a weekend early. Hey, also, quick question — why are your clothes _and_ your unopened duffel bags outside the tent?"

Emma rolls over quickly to look at Killian, who shrugs, as if to say _your call_.

"Partying like it's 1999," Emma shouts back, unable to keep the smile from her face and setting off another round of noise — whoops from and Ruby and Victor, an _I don't wanna know_ from David, something about the tent cleaning deposits from Regina.

Mary Margaret discreetly shoves their bags to the door of the tent, and after a clumsy and distracting round of getting dressed, they're soon joining the rest of the group in dismantling the tents and hauling them to the truck.

The drive back is still spent focused on Killian's fingers on the steering wheel, but now it feels _earned_.

When they arrive at Granny's, it's to the Saturday morning brunch crowd in the courtyard, and a dandelion at Emma's feet when she steps out of the car.

She grabs Killian's hand, faces the future, and steps tidily around it.

 


End file.
